


Yes No Maybe

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 09:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Zelda is a witch of yes or no.Hilda is a witch of maybe.





	Yes No Maybe

Death can be so intimate.

It can also be clinical, technical, experimental, accidental, indifferent, deliberate, inevitable, cruel, torturous, erotic, unexpected, permanent, temporary.

Death can be so many things.

But like this—fingers and breath—it’s intimate.

And that’s the way they want it, need it.

xxx

Zelda Spellman is a witch of specifics, intricacies. She’s a witch of yes and no, not maybe. The unholy book says so, and so does she.

But Hilda Spellman is a witch of maybe. She’s a witch of sponge cake and possibility. She’s a witch doomed to die and fated to rise. Both with a smile and a song. Over and over again.

xxx

The first time is in anger, frustration.

“How dare you?” Zelda says.

“I don’t recall daring anything,” Hilda says.

They are adolescents and volatile. Yes and no and maybe all at once with their changing hormones. Hating and loving in equal, confusing measure. 

A frying pan and then darkness and both awake again. So awake.

Many times many instruments many disputes.  
Longer and longer to die; longer and longer to live again. It’s a game with no winner. It’s a game that’s more fun to play than to win.

But the last time.

“How dare you?” Hilda says this time. It’s not her usual line. She is usually the one daring, allegedly.

“Don’t, sister,” Zelda says, dark and brooding. She is always dark and brooding. But now is even more. Different, electric.

Their eyes meet in the dimness. And a pale blue line of magic zips between them. Hilda laughs uncomfortably and then says, daring,

“But what if I do?”

“You wouldn’t.” A blade flashes.

They both look at it in the dark.

“I might,” Hilda says.

“You might a lot of things,” Zelda says.

Hilda might a lot of things. She is a witch of maybe. Zelda has yesed and noed. And right now she is yesing and noing both. 

They’re in the parlor, and Zelda has a butcher knife pressed to Hilda’s throat, taut and close. If Hilda took a big enough breath, the sharp edge would slice her, just slightly, just so a single droplet of her red, red blood might escape. But she’s breathing normally. And the blade rests on her skin, waiting. She is a witch of maybe.

But Zelda is a witch of yes and no. She is angry. Perhaps she is not angry at her sister as such. But she is angry as an identity. Angry as a person. She is a witch of yes. She adjusts the handle in her tight grip. Hilda blinks. Zelda adjusts again. 

And there’s that droplet of red, red blood.

“You might a lot of things, and you will,” Zelda says.

Hilda’s hand is over hers now, skin on skin, heat on heat, magic on magic.

“Maybe,” Hilda says.

Their magic intermingles, competes, caresses. And then the knife is on the floor.

“You will anyway,” Zelda says.

Hilda closes her eyes, bares her neck.

“Yes,” Hilda says.

Zelda’s fingers close.

Darkness. And both are awake again. So awake.

xxx

Every time Hilda has died, Zelda has died, too. In a different, same way.

They don’t call it what it is.

But it is. 

What it is.

Zelda hides in sex and cigarettes. Hilda hides in trashy novels and pastry. They both hide from each other in their shared bedroom.

They hide and dance. An open secret. 

They hide only from themselves.

zzz

“How dare you,” Zelda says one night.

“Not this again,” Hilda says back, a scratch in the velvet.

“Don’t you dare—”

“Oh? I’m the one daring things?”

There’s so much heat and light in Hilda’s tone. She’s a witch of maybe, of perhaps.

“You’re always daring things,” Zelda says. “I wouldn’t have to—”

“You wouldn’t have to kill me if I didn’t ask for it?” Hilda says.

There is a pause. 

“Yes,” Zelda says.

“And what if I wanted to kill you instead?” Hilda says.

There is another pause.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Zelda says.

“I dare a lot of things, according to you,” Hilda says.

Yes, no, maybe.

This time the pause is more of a caesura.

And then Hilda is slipping beneath Zelda’s comforter, unfurling against Zelda, sighing. They haven’t done this in ages—just been next to each other, just felt each other. They sigh together.

“I could kill you,” Zelda says.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Hilda says.

Yes, no, maybe.

A very long caesura.

Fingers and breath.

Death and life.

And their tongues are now in each other’s mouths. They haven’t ever done this. But it’s been threatening to happen for ages.

Zelda’s thigh finds its way to Hilda’s center.

“I guess you would dare,” Hilda says.

Zelda groans. But then says,

“I’ll do whatever I like. It’s the Dark Lord’s will.”

They’re already writhing together. Hilda says,

“Convenient.”

But Zelda has already pushed Hilda’s ugly floral night dress up.

“I do want to kill you,” Zelda says even as her fingers trace each of Hilda’s ribs.

“I know,” Hilda says. “I want you to.” Hilda sighs and groans as Zelda continues palpating her ribs and kidneys and hips.

“This isn’t right,” Zelda says into Hilda’s ear, her hands still wandering and wandering.

“We’ll do whatever we like. It’s the Dark Lord’s will,” Hilda says, arching into each wandering touch.

“Do we dare?” Zelda says.

“Maybe,” Hilda says.

“It’s a yes or a no,” Zelda says.

But Zelda’s body is on top of Hilda’s body, and both bodies are connecting. They are dancing the dance they’ve pretended not to dance.

“I think you know,” Hilda says.

They kiss again. And Zelda’s thigh is there again, meeting heat and wetness.

“Of course I know,” Zelda says. “But I’d rather you said it.”

“You’ve never needed me to say it before,” Hilda says. She takes Zelda’s hand, guides it between her legs.

“It’s been a different death before,” Zelda says.

“Has it, though?” Hilda says, grinding into that hand she’d just guided.

“Yes,” Zelda says, slipping one finger inside tentatively.

“Maybe,” Hilda moans and bucks. Zelda bucks, too.

“Say yes,” Zelda says.

“No,” Hilda says. 

“What?”

“No,” Hilda says again, but it’s more of a moan. “It hasn’t been different.”

“What?” Zelda says again even as she adds another finger, pushes more rhythmically.

“Don’t you dare,” Hilda says. Zelda adds her thumb to Hilda’s clit. Hilda moans, manages to accuse, “Don’t you dare pretend all those times you were killing me you didn’t want to fuck me instead.”

Zelda uses her body weight, all her dexterity. She closes her eyes and focuses on Hilda’s pleasure as she says,

“Maybe.”

zzz

Zelda awakens sweaty and unsatisfied. Hilda is in her own bed, still asleep, and dawn has just now started to creep in.

Zelda doesn’t know how much has been a dream.

Hilda rolls over.

Zelda’s eyes are now more adjusted, now discern the dirt haphazardly distributed across Hilda’s bed.

She’d killed her. And then had had the familiar disconcerting dream.

“Hilda,” she says.

“Yeah?” Hilda says.

“Are you here?”

“Maybe,” Hilda says.

“Satan, that makes me want to kill you again.”

Hilda turns again, and her blue blue eyes are open and searing.

“Nothing we’re not used to, is it, love?”

“Take a shower, for hell’s sake. I’ll do the sheets.”

“If you’re so offended, you ought to have thought of that before you strangled me.”

A pause. Maybe not quite a caesura.

“And you ought to have thought at all,” Zelda says.

They look at each other.

And then Hilda rises, crosses to the bathroom.

Zelda strips Hilda’s bed.

But then she’s at the shower curtain,

“You like this.”

There is movement behind the curtain. Perhaps a straightening up from shaving legs.

“I do like a hot shower,” Hilda says in the steam.

“No,” Zelda says. She’s a witch of yes and no. “You like this.”

The shower curtain is so still.

“What do you want me to say, Zelds?”

“I want you to say yes or no.”

The water shuts off.

“Maybe,” Hilda says.

Zelda is sitting on her own bed, holding her temples, when Hilda emerges in a heavy navy bathrobe.

“What’s wrong with you?” Hilda says, too close.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Hilda clicks her tongue.

“There’s something wrong with everybody,” Hilda says. “But especially you.” Zelda looks at her. Hilda takes a half step back. “Well, right now, anyhow.” Zelda looks at her again, and Hilda sits beside her. “You really think it’s worse for you than it is for me, don't you?”

Zelda does not speak. She lights a cigarette. Hilda says,

“Maybe it is. It’s quite pleasant in the ground, dead. It’s the digging out again that always makes me so tired.”

Zelda still does not, cannot speak. Hilda continues,

“I don’t like the before or the after much. But the during is cozy. Gives me time to not think.”

Finally Zelda looks at her, sees a maybe.

“And what do you have to not think about?”

“Like I said, Zelda: there’s something wrong with everybody.” They stare at each other. Yes, no, maybe.

“We need to get dressed,” Zelda says.

“And I need to start breakfast. And you need to sit rigidly with your newspaper. But what if we didn’t?”

“What are we doing if we’re not doing that?” Hilda shakes her head, stands, unties her robe. Zelda just catches a flash of her tits, a flash of soft white flesh. Zelda is not looking for it, but she just catches it anyway.

“You’re right, of course,” Hilda says. She slides into white cotton panties pulled blindly from her top drawer. “Thank you for changing my bedding.”

“Thank you for dying. And for living again.”

“Don’t get sentimental, Zelds. It doesn’t suit you.”

At breakfast Hilda is clean and alive and manipulating pans and mixers. Zelda is behind her newspaper, smoking and drinking coffee and thinking, always thinking.

Sabrina eats and leaves. Ambrose eats and leaves. Zelda doesn’t eat and stays. She says,

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Uh oh,” Hilda says.

“Don’t you dare,” Zelda says.

“I’ve heard that line before,” Hilda says.

Zelda scoffs. Zelda pauses. Zelda finally says,

“You ought to kill me.”

Hilda looks up from the jam she’s boiling.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To even the playing field,” Zelda says without thinking.

“That ship sailed a long time ago, sister.” Hilda returns to her jam.

“No,” Zelda says. She folds her newspaper, stands. “I want you to.”

Hilda does not look up, does not adjust the heat of the burner. She simply stirs and then after a long beat makes eye contact.

“I don’t particularly care what you want,” Hilda says. “I used to, certainly. But now. Now if I bothered with that, I’d be a lot more confused and tangled than I ever had any right being. I’d rather just do what I do and be killed for it if I must.” Zelda opens her mouth, but Hilda is still talking. “And no. I don’t want to kill you. Death is peaceful and calming. And you don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve peace and calm. You deserve torture and destruction. And that’s what you seek when you have relations with Faustus Blackwood or Mary Wardwell. Good for you. Go ahead and be destroyed. Go ahead and be punished. You want it, and you deserve it. But I just want to be. I just want to live. Of course, living with you has necessitated death. That was ok, too. Death is so much more serene than life—” It seems that Hilda would rant interminably, so Zelda interrupts her:

“But death can be so many things.”

They blink at each other.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” Hilda says. She moves the saucepan and turns off the burner.

“I’ve heard everything you’ve ever said and ever not said,” Zelda says. Hilda slams a wooden spoon down onto the counter.

“Bollocks!”

And then Hilda is supernaturally quickly in front of Zelda.

“Bollocks!” Hilda says again. “You’ve never heard me in your blasted life!”

They both breathe at each other. Zelda says,

“I’ve heard a lot of things.”

Hilda throws up her hands, exhales exasperatedly, but Zelda throws her body closer, and their breasts almost touch.

“I’ve heard a lot of things,” Zelda says. “But I’ve also thought a lot of things.” Her arms envelop, meet at the counter.

“Don’t you dare,” Hilda says.

Zelda’s hands clench the counter, forcing her body just a little closer to that body she’s told herself she hadn’t wanted to be closer to.

“But you do dare,” Hilda says, eyes so open and blue beneath her.

“Yes,” Zelda says.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Hilda says. “But I rather like it when you kill me.”

Zelda shuts her eyes so tightly.

“I like it, too,” Zelda says.

“We’re despicable.”

“Yes.” Hilda sighs:

“But I can’t abide all these other influences.” She pauses, waits. “It’s got to just be me and you.”

Zelda scoffs. Hilda becomes even more serious beneath her:

“It’s got to just be me. And you.”

Death and life. Fingers and breath. Yes, no, and maybe.

“Of course,” Zelda says.

“Yes,” Hilda says.

They look at each other then.

Zelda is pinning Hilda against a kitchen cabinet. Their bodies are close. Their eyes are half closed. They know and don’t know. They feel and don’t feel. Hilda says,

“Me and you, love.”

Zelda gulps this down. When she doesn’t gag on it, she says,

“Yes.” And then she presses her body closer, presses her tongue inside Hilda’s mouth.

They’ve never done this. But it has always been threatening to happen. 

It’s intimate. Like death.

Hilda takes that tongue, caresses that tongue with her own, and her hips surge. She then pulls back.

“How dare you!” Hilda says, panting, vibrating.

“I’ll dare whatever I like,” Zelda says, advancing again, tongue and lips and teeth. She’s chasing, chasing. Her teeth gain purchase on a collarbone. Hilda groans:

“I wish you’d dare something different.”

“And what would you dare me to dare?” Zelda says.

They look at each other, both sets of eyes dark and hooded. Hilda finally says,

“Why can’t you love me without all this violence?”

They stare for a beat. A caesura. Zelda says,

“You wouldn’t love me without the violence.”

“Maybe,” Hilda says.

Tongues are again there. Zelda advances, Hilda retreats. Hilda advances, Zelda retreats. They see each other, match each other.

Hilda pulls herself away, says,

“I’ve got other things to do, you know.”

Zelda’s grip is still tight on Hilda’s hips as she says,

“I know. But they can wait.”

They look at each other. Hilda says,

“Of course you would think so.”

Zelda says,

“I know so.”

Even as Hilda rolls her eyes and says,

“You always think you know better. But maybe you don’t.” They again look at each other. “Maybe I actually know better.”

“Maybe,” Zelda says.

Yes, no, maybe.


End file.
